Wednesday, March 25, 2015

You will pick your baby's nose. Write that down and accept it. There are the nasal sprays and Boogie Wipes. There are respirator bulbs and the nightmarish Snot Suckers. But sometimes the wee snoot is just sitting right there on the edge of her nostril and nothing else can remove it like your thumb and forefinger. And it's not that bad, really. Unless you get the Iceberg Booger. You think it's just a little nub and then you pluck it and it turns out to be a half-foot-long succubus, as if her right nostril is goddamned clown car, and you shove the snot in a tissue and you almost throw up on her bedroom carpet. Other than that, you'll be fine.

During the first three months of Mathilda's life, I probably tripled my drinking. At least I wasn't sleeping either. Or eating consistently. My memories of the first three months have either blown themselves up or are desperately trying to. I'm glad that nature assumes parents will responsibly maintain a helpless pupa while they can barely keep themselves alive. There's nothing like seeing the clock read 2:30pm and realize that you haven't eaten or hydrated during the 10 hours you've been awake and then walking to Domino's for bacon & jalapeño cheesy bread and then washing that "food" down with a highball of whatever.

At some point Mathilda started sleeping really well. And that was the point that I realized I needed to return to the one-drink-a-day life (while staying in four-desserts-a-day mode for the next seventeen years). When I got to that awareness level my preferences changed drastically. At the end of a full day of battling (er, safely raising) my ever-calm child, when I finally sit down to have a drink, I no longer have any interest in so-so whisk(e)y. Not even kinda-good whisk(e)y. Children teach parents new unknown levels of exhaustion and in the quiet after the onslaught this parent only wants to drink something excellent. Something so good that I exclaim, "Man, that is f---ing great!" loud enough to wake my child that just took over an hour to put to bed. And I've had a lot of *shrug* whisk(e)y recently. I've dumped more whisk(e)y down the drain than ever before. Whisky, astonish me.

Okay, maybe those expectations are unreasonable with this whisky as it is a single grain. Even if it is a forty-eight year old single grain. I was trying to count up how many single grain whiskies I've had, but they've been so forgettable that I don't really know. There was a single cask Greenore, from Ireland, that was kinda fun. A couple of North Britishes that were palatable. Compass Box's Hedonism (a vatting, admittedly) smells very nice. But I think I've had 15-20 others that weren't far removed from a watery mix of Malibu Rum and blended American whiskey. I'll settle for: Single Grain Whisky, be somewhat memorable for positive reasons.

Don't worry nervous people, no whisky was harmed in the filming of this event.

The whisky has a brass color, a little lighter than I expected from something that spent almost a half century in a barrel. The nose starts off with roasted corn, furniture polish, tree bark, and clover honey. Then it takes on notes that flit between blooming violets and lilac-scented hand cream. Soon some grape candy joins the party, followed by pine needles. It grows more candied with time, and picks up some mustiness along the way. After a good 45 minutes in the glass, there's also some hazelnut liqueur, toffee, pencil shavings, curry powder, roasted grains, and lots of sugar. It's happily light on the vanilla and devoid of coconut. The palate has quite a kick for such an oldie. A real sweetie with lots of wood spice (thinkin' cinnamon syrup and green peppercorns), whipped cream, and caramel sauce. And then there's all the tannins and wood pulp. After 45 minutes not a hint of coconut (yay!). Again, light on the vanilla with some roasted almonds thrown in. It's mostly oak though very tolerable. The finish is sugary and toasty. Those almonds now float in toffee. Crème fraîche and agave nectar. Some woody bitterness appears but somehow remains palatable.

Color me almost astonished: A single grain that I (gasp!) like. Yes, it did take 48 years to blossom and did cost at least €300 -- though, €300 is not an unreasonable price for a 48-year-old whisky in this market. It's also enormously oaky, which should not be a surprise at its age, so that's a warning for those who'd rather avoid this sort of thing. But the oak has allowed some grainy stuff to live on and merge with the tannins and spice.

What it's missing is the artificial-coconut-flavoring note (hence the Malibu rum comment above) that I've found in almost every single grain I've tried. That note is a dealbreaker for my palate. The moment I find it, I just don't want to drink anymore. This Girvan had not even a hint of it. Could that be attributed to a good cask?

Overall, the nose is the best part, just loaded with decades of oddities courtesy of chemistry. The palate cannot be accused of complexity, but is very pleasant for those with high oak tolerance. Meanwhile, the finish is a little on the short side and quite sweet, but never really disappointing. While I don't think this can compete with great single malts, it would be a good alternative to middling blends and bourbons. And that's the nicest thing I've ever said about a single grain.